


Wildfire

by whiskyandwildflowers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dom Harry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Infidelity, Infidelity Fantasy, M/M, Past Violence, comeplay if you squint, sectumsempra angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyandwildflowers/pseuds/whiskyandwildflowers
Summary: Your life is burning down around you, and all you’re going to do is watch.





	Wildfire

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was inspired by the fact that my entire city is covered in wildfire smoke and it's like a dystopian nightmare out there. 
> 
> This is an experiment in 2nd person POV. It's an infidelity fantasy piece, with lots of mentions of when Harry died in the woods, Sectumsempra angst, a lot of "what ifs". This won't be everyone's cup of tea, so heed the warnings and this note.
> 
> Infinite thanks to keyflight790 for betaing this for me!

It’s not that you wish things had been different. Certainly you don’t. But it’s just that sometimes you do. Sometimes, when you’re bored at your Ministry job, bored with your wife, stuck sedentary in a life you chose but really didn’t, you start to wonder about what it could have been like.

The guilt of _missing it_ makes your stomach lurch and keeps you awake at night. How sick are you that you miss being hunted, miss being on the run, miss starving and scrounging and fighting and fleeing. At seventeen, you were brave and fearless and the passion rolled off of you in waves. Now you sit at a desk. You do _paperwork_ for fuck’s sake. Wizarding Britain’s most famous modern war hero is reduced to filing expense reports.

And you never wanted that either—the titles and the accolades and the attention. That doesn’t mean you don’t see the irony in it all. The last time you truly felt alive was when you made the decision to die—and what does that say about you?

It doesn’t help that when you see _him,_ you miss it even more. What could it have been like if you’d taken his hand in that waterlogged bathroom instead of slicing him to ribbons and making his blood run in sticky streams all over the dirty tiles. Would you have taken him with you? Huddled with him in that tent when it was cold and food was scarce? Would you have shared his body heat? Would you have let him show you just how grateful he could be? These are thoughts you only allow in the dead of night when everyone’s asleep—when she can’t clock the shame in your expression or the flush in your cheeks.

And you know he feels it too. Beneath the high-necked robes, the pristine black outfits and the gleaming white hair, you know he wishes things were different. Maybe he wishes _they’d_ won. Maybe he wishes he had come to you on his knees and begged for help. Either way, you know he’s not happy either.

You can’t think about him on his knees.

But you do. You think about him all the time. He’s on his knees in Slytherin green, moaning while you pull his hair and he sucks you off. He’s on his knees in the forest, and it’s cold but he’s hot and it’s _right there, yes, right there_. And instead of your wife, you’re thinking of him and you don’t know why. In your mind, he’s hot and tight and electric around you, while she’s asleep next to you in your cozy house with the yellow door that’s warm and lovely and stifling and suffocating.

She smells like flowers, but you’re sure he smells like wood smoke. Like wildfire.

And you might hate the life you died for, but you’re not going to do anything about it.

It doesn’t matter that you want to run your tongue along his pulsepoint, to feel his heartbeat, to know that he’s alive. To know that he’s alive after all the blood he lost. All the blood you made him lose. It doesn’t matter that you’re too afraid of being a disappointment and now the only person disappointed is you. It doesn’t matter that you want to know how his come tastes.

Your friends don’t get it. They’re in love and happy and they bicker but they’re happy. They hated the struggle, hated the fight, hated the uncertainty and the cold and the dark. But he gets it. You know he gets it. And you can’t ask him, but you _know._

You love them, and you love her, but you want him. You want him so much you think you might die from it, if you hadn’t died already. And nobody knows. Nobody can know. It’s a secret that you keep stashed away where you keep every dark and awful thought you’ve ever had—where you keep the fact that you’d rather be hiding in the forest, covered in bruises or bite marks, instead of staying warm and safe and loved.

This feeling is constantly burning through you. It’s wrecking everything inside of you and you want to stop it but you can’t. It’s out of control. It’s going to blaze a path right through you until there’s nothing left if you’re not careful. You’ve never been careful.

Her hair might glow red, but you think about him when you think of fire.

You think about it every day. Saving him. Saving nobody. Saving yourself.

You think about fucking him. You want to open him up with your tongue until he’s dripping and wanting and desperate and grateful. He’d be so grateful. You want to fuck him so you know he feels it. So that’s he’s so full of your come he can’t help but feel it. He’s the only one who feels it.

You don’t want to be the only one who feels it.

But what you’re really going to do is nothing at all.

Your life is burning down around you, and all you’re going to do is watch.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](https://whiskyandwildflowers.tumblr.com)


End file.
